Evans, Linda - Time Scout 2 - Wages of Sin
VIP免费
2024-12-03
3
0
545.77KB
201 页
5.9玖币
侵权投诉
CHAPTER ONE
Skeeter Jackson was a scoundrel.
A dyed-in-the-wool, thieving scoundrel.
He knew it, of course; knew it as well as anyone else in La-La Land (at
least, anyone who'd been on Shangri-La Station longer than a week). Not only
did he know it, he was proud of it, the way other men were proud of their
batting averages, their cholesterol counts, their stock portfolios.
Skeeter was very careful to rub shoulders with men of the latter type, who
not only boasted of large 'folios, but carried enormous amounts of cash in
money belts declared through ATF at Primary (so they wouldn't be charged taxes
for any money they'd brought with them). Skeeter rarely failed to get hold of
at least some of that money, if not the whole money belt. Ah, the crisp, cool
feel of cash in hand ...
But he wasn't just a thief. Oh, no. Skeeter was a master con artist as
well, and those skills (ruthless cunning, serpentine guile, the ability to
radiate innocent enthusiasm) were among the best.
So-in honor of Yesukai the Valiant and for the very practical reason of
survival-he worked hard at being the very best scoundrel he could make
himself. Once he'd arrived (freshly scrubbed to get the New York filth off his
hide and out of his soul), it hadn't taken Skeeter long to create a life
uniquely his own on a time terminal unique among time terminals.
There was only one La-La Land. He loved it fiercely.
On this particular fine morning, Skeeter rose, stretched, and grinned. The
game's afoot, Watson! (He'd heard that in a movie someplace and liked the
sound of it.) The glow coming in beneath his door told him Residence lights
were on, not in their dimmed "night" mode. That was really the only way to
tell, unless you had an alarm clock with a Pm indicator light; Skeeter's had
burned out long ago, the last time he'd heaved it at the wall for rudely
awakening him with yet another hangover to regret.
Showered and shaved with minimal time wasted, he dressed for the day-and
the next two glorious weeks. After some of the things he'd worn, the costume
he now donned felt almost natural. Whistling absently to himself, Skeeter-
working hard as ever on his chosen vocation-contemplated his brilliant new
scheme. And the one gaping hole in it.
Surprisingly, the station's excellent library hadn't been much help. To
minimize information leakage, Skeeter had searched the computers, gleaning
bits of valuable information here and there (and managing to tot up more than
a week's worth of earnings against the computer-access account belonging to a
scout currently out in the field). That little scam was actually worth the
otherwise wasted effort, as the scout had once maligned Skeeter in public-
wrongly, as it happened; Skeeter hadn't even been involved. Skeeter, therefore
felt free to indulge his natural urge to cause the scout the greatest amount
of distress possible in the shortest amount of time, all without leaving
behind any proof the s.o.b. could use to prosecute.
Irritatingly elusive, the one piece of the puzzle Skeeter needed most just
wasn't in any pilfered file.
The only place to find what he needed was inside someone's head. Brian
Hendrickson, the librarian, would know, of course-he knew, just as sharply as
though he'd learned it mere moments previously, everything he'd ever seen,
read, or heard (and probably more-lots more), but Brian's dislike of Skeeter
was La-La Land Legend. After ruling out Brian, who was left?
Just needing one more piece of expert advice, Skeeter was running out of
time to find it-and had never had many friends to find it from. Well, hell,
folks with his chosen vocation wouldn't have many friends, now would they?
Trust just didn't come with the territory. Having accepted that years ago,
Skeeter continued to mentally rummage through the list of people he might be
able to ask, tossed out all scouts, most guides (Agnes Fairchild was willing-
mmm, was she ever!-she just didn't know). He hesitated -- again -- on Goldie
Morran. She'd be motivated, all right, and she'd probably know, too; but he
wasn't about to share potentially enormous profits by confiding his plan to
any of the other scoundrels who made La-La Land their permanent home. To make
the score himself, Goldie-the-heartless-Morran, TT-86s leading authority on
rare coins and gems, was out.
What he needed was someone who'd been there, firsthand.
Other than a handful of rich visitors who'd been through the Porta Romae
multiple times-most of whom Skeeter had "liberated" from the burden of their
cash and were therefore to be avoided at any cost, Skeeter finally came up
with a single, qualified man in the whole of TT-86: Marcus.
A startled grin passed across his face. As it happened, Marcus was probably
better suited to give Skeeter advice on this particular scheme than all the
so-called experts in La-La Land. Should've just gone to Marcus in the first
place and saved myself a heap of time and trouble. But he'd been embarrassed,
feeling a pang of inexplicable guilt at the thought of conning his best (and
practically his only) friend into helping him. Of course, he'd also have
missed racking up all those on line hours against that asshole of a scout ....
By coincidence rare and somewhat miraculous, Marcus actually liked Skeeter.
Why, Skeeter had not a single clue. Downtimers often came an with the
strangest ideas, many of them quaintly useless, others so eccentric they
passed beyond the understandable into the misty, magical realm of things like
what made the gates work and what did women really want, anyway? He'd given up
on both, long ago, avoiding stepping through any more gates than absolutely
necessary and taking his flings where he could find them, not very
discontented when he couldn't. He didn't feel proud about his ignorance;
business, however, was business.
So Skeeter finished the last touches on his "business uniform" then headed
for Commons to hunt down Marcus, then meet Agnes and her group for the tour.
Skeeter liked the open airy feeling of Commons. Not only did it compensate
(a little) for the loss of vast, open plains of his teenage years, but more
importantly, it always smelled to Skeeter like money. Vast sums of cold, hard
currency changed hands here. It wasn't too much to ask of the gods, was it,
that some small trickle of that vast amount fall blissfully into his deserving
hands?
Theology aside (and only the many gods knew what Skeeter's was: he
certainly didn't), Commons was just plain fun. Particularly at this time of
year. As he strode out into the body-jammed floor, picking his way through
multiple festivals and reenactments in progress, Skeeter had to shake his head
and grin.
What a madhouse! There were, of course, the usual tourist gates with their
waiting areas, ramps, and platforms; ticket booths for those who'd waited to
arrive before deciding on a destination-fine, if you could afford the hotel
bills waiting for your tour to leave; timecard automated dispensers (hooked
into the station's database and set up to match retinal scans and replace the
original's temporal-travel data for those idiots who'd lost theirs); and of
course, timecard readers (at the entrance and exit of every gate, to scan
where and when you'd already been in a desperate effort to Prevent some fool
tourist from shadowing him- or herself).
There were also shops and restaurants, on multiple levels, many with
entrances by balcony only; bizarre stairways to nowhere; balconies and girder-
supported platforms suspended three and four stories above the floor;
barricaded and fenced-off areas marking either unevenly recurring, unstable
gates or stable but unexplored gates; and-the piece de resistance, multiple
hundreds of costumed, laughing, drinking, quarreling, fighting, kissing,
hugging, gullible tourists. With fat wallets just waiting for someone's light-
fingered touch ...
Just now Commons looked exactly like the North Pole might if Santa's elves
had gone quietly mad on LSD in the process of decorating the workshop. He
breathed in the smell of celebration and money and grinned up at the whole,
gaudy, breathtaking length of Commons, loving every bit of the craziness that
always overtook Shangri-La Station this time of year.
"And what," a woman's voice said practically at his elbow, "are you
grinning about, Skeeter Jackson?"
He looked up-then down-and found Ann Vinh Mulhaney, TT-86s resident
projectile weapons instructor. Ann was so petite she was smaller than her
teenaged son. Barely came up to Skeeter's biceps. She was, however, the second
or third deadliest person on station, depending on whether Kit Carson had
showed up at the range for some shooting practice most recently, or whether
Ann had (since Kit's last target practice) hit the gym mats for a series of
sweat-building katas and bone-pounding sparring sessions against Sven Bailey,
the station's widely known Number One deadliest individual.
Skeeter felt ridiculous, towering over a woman who terrified him down to
his cockles. Uh-oh. What do I do now?
Oddly, Ann was smiling up at him, like that famous painting of the Mona
Lisa. Like good old Mona, Ann revealed absolutely nothing in dark, knowing
eyes. The strange little smile on her lips did not touch them. For a moment,
he was actually cold-sweating scared of her, despite at least a foot and
several inches height advantage and a good chance at outsprinting her, even in
this crowd.
Then something altered subtly and he realized the smile had just turned
friendly. What does she want? Does she want to hire me to steal something,
maybe, or bring her back a special souvenir as a surprise for somebody?
Skeeter not only couldn't understand how Ann's husband could actually live
with that deadly little viper, he honestly could find no sane reason why Ann
would even talk to him.
She looked him up and down, then met his gaze. "Heard you were going
through the Porta Romae."
Uh-oh. He answered very carefully, "Uh, yeah, that was sorta the plan. Me
and Agnes, you know."
She just nodded, as though confirming the cinching of a wager with someone
about what Skeeter Jackson was up to now.
He relaxed. Settling a wager was all right. Ann was certainly entitled to
ask him questions if the answers won her a tidy sum in some bet.
But she was still smiling, friendly-like. The Christmas season, maybe?
Manifesting itself in a determined "do unto others" even if it killed her?
She took the initiative once again. "So, what were you grinning about?
Misadventures, schemes, and scams downtime?"
"Ann! You wound me!"
She just laughed, eyes and the twist of her mouth clearly skeptical.
"Honestly, I was just taking in all of... that."
She followed his gaze and her eyes softened. "It is; um, overwhelming,
isn't it? Even crazier than last year's contest."
Skeeter grinned again. "At least I don't see any three-story, arm-waving
Santas to catch fire this year."
She shared his laugh. "No, thank goodness! I thought Bull Morgan was going
to fall into a fit of apoplexy when he saw the smoke and flames. Good thing
Pest Control's good at putting out fires, too."
"Yeah. They were good, that day. You know," Skeeter said thoughtfully, "I
think the holiday season is my very favorite time of year on station. All of
that," he waved a hand toward the insanity surrounding them, "cheers a guy up.
You know?"
Ann studied him minutely. "So, the holidays cheer you up, do they? Rachel's
hands are always full this time of year with half-suicidal people who don't do
holidays well. But with you, well, I think I can guess why."
"Yeah?" Skeeter asked with interest, wondering how transparent he'd become
since leaving Yesukai's camp.
"Let's see ... I'm betting-figuratively," she added hastily, "that the
holiday season is usually the closest you ever come to getting rich. True or
false?"
He had to laugh, even while wincing. "Ann, with triple the ordinary number
of tourists jamming Commons, how can a guy lose? 'Course I'm happiest this
time of year!" He didn't add that the pain of five missed Christmases-holidays
that had nothing to do with the expensive bribes his parents piled under the
tree each year-were also responsible for his determined merrymaking as he
caught up on all the childhood holidays he'd been alone.
Ann just sighed. "Skeeter, you are an irrepressible scoundrel." She caught
his gaze, then, and shocked him speechless. "But you know, I think if you ever
got caught and kicked off TT-86, La-La Land would be a lot less fun. You're
... intriguing, Skeeter Jackson. Like a puzzle; where all the pieces don't
quite fit right." With an odd little smile, she said, "Maybe I ought to ask
Nally Mundy about it." Skeeter groaned inwardly. Not too many people knew.
Skeeter's had been a fleeting, fifteen-second sound-byte's worth of fame,
timmed between a triple homicide and a devastating hotel fire on the evening
news, years ago. But Nally Mundy knew. Skeeter hadn't quite forgiven him for
discovering that juicy little tidbit to hound him about.
Before he could lodge a protest, though, Ann said, "Well, anyway, good
hunting-whatever you're up to. See you 'round in a couple of weeks."
She left before he could open his mouth.
And Ann Vinh Mulhaney wishes one good hunting, no less. La-La Land felt
like it had turned upside down.
Skeeter glanced up, more than halfway expecting to see crowds of people
thronging the Commons' floor, rather than the distant, girdered ceiling.
"Huh," was his only comment.
Skeeter glanced at the gate-departure board suspended from the ceiling and
whistled silently. He would have to stretch his legs if he wanted to catch
Marcus before he went off shift at the Down Time Bar & Grill. But he still had
several minutes' leeway until he had to catch up with Agnes for the Porta
Romae Gate departure.
He picked his way cautiously through a horde of "medieval" damsels, knights
in handcrafted chain-mail armor, and throngs of pages and squires, even
"authentic" vendors and friars, all headed for Tournament down the newest of
TT-86s active gates, the "Anachronism" as 'eighty-sixers called it after the
name of the organization that used it most. It led, of all places, to North
America prior to the coming of the paleo-Indian population that would
eventually cross the Bering Strait and settle. two empty continents. Several
times a year, hordes--masses-of medieval loons flooded IT-86, every one of
them just dying to step through the Anachronism to play at war, medieval
style.
Skeeter shook his head. From the realities of war as he'd seen it, Skeeter
couldn't find much in wholesale slaughter that should be turned into any kind
of game. For, it smacked a little of heresy (whatever that might be) to mock
the brave dead they pretended to emulate. Clearly, they got something from it
they badly needed, or they wouldn't keep doing it. Especially with the cost so
high.
Not only did they have every other tourist's normal expenses, they had to
get permission to take their own horses and hunting falcons along, with stiff
penalties if any of the uptime animals got loose and started a breeding colony
millennia before they should have existed; they had to haul fodder and cut-up
mice for their animals; then had to find a place to keep said animals until
Anachronism's departure date and then, of course, they all had to get through
the gate in time, balking horses, screeching falcons, their own provisions as
well as the animals', in short, everything required for a one-month, downtime
Tournament and the honor to have fought in or attended one.
The single thing he understood about them was their detestation of nosey
newsies. It was rumored that no newsie had ever gotten through with them. Or
if they had, they hadn't survived to tell the tale. North America was a bad
place, that long ago. Sabre cats, dire wolves-you name it. Meaning, of course,
that Skeeter's intention of stepping through the Anachronism was right up
there with his intention of walking up to Mike Benson and holding out his
hands to be cuffed.
Skeeter watched with admiration as hawkers of "medieval wares" counted up
their sales and tourists pushed to hand over cash for "MAGIC POTIONS!";
crystals mounted as necklaces or stand-alone little trinkets, attuned to the
buyer's aura by placing it under the pillow for seven consecutive full moons;
charms for wealth, health, harmony, courage, and beauty; exquisite,
illuminated calligraphy with even more exquisite prices; plus relatively cheap
jewelry that commanded top-rate prices because it was "handmade in the most
ancient methods known to our medieval ancestors."
In Skeeter's educated estimation, they were as much con artists as Skeeter
himself. They even kept back the good stuff (he knew; he'd pilfered a coveted
item or two for his quarters, to liven it up a bit), keeping it hidden to sell
at the Tournament, bringing along a supply of junk to sell to gullible
tourists, to help defray expenses a little. They were con men and women, all
might. They just had a different angle on the art than Skeeter did.
Ianira Cassondra-who had occasionally made Skeeter's hair stand on end,
just with a simple word or two-called them fakes, charlatans, and even worse,
because they had neither the training to dabble in such things, nor the proper
attitude for it.
"They will inadvertently hurt people one day. Just wait. Station management
will do nothing about them now; but when people start falling down sick with
all manner of strange illnesses, their trade will be banished." She'd sighed,
dark eyes unhappy. "And Management will most likely outlaw my booth as well,
as I doubt Bull Morgan is capable of telling the difference."
Skeeter had wanted to contradict her, but not only was he half scared she
was reading the future, in the back of his own mind, Skeeter knew perfectly
well that Bull Morgan wouldn't know the difference, and wouldn't care, either,
just so long as the crummy tourists were protected.
Skeeter thought dark, vile thoughts at bureaus and the bureauc-rats that
ran 'em, and skittered through long lines in Edo Castletown waiting for the
official opening of the new Shinto Shrine that was nearly finished. He dashed
past Kit Carson's world-famous hotel, past extraordinary gardens with deep
streams where colored fish kept to the shadows, trying to avoid becoming a
sushi lunch for some Ichthyornis or a Sordes fritcheus diving down from the
ceiling.
Skeeter smiled reminiscently, recalling the moment Sue Fritchey had figured
out what their crow-sized "pterosaurs" really were: "My God! They're a new
species of Sordes! They shouldn't be living at the same time as a sternbergi
at all. My God, but this is... it's revolutionary! A warm-blooded, fur-covered
Sordes -and a fish eater, not an insectivore, but it's definitely a Sordes,
there's no mistaking that!-and it survived right up until the end of the
Cretaceous. All along, we've thought Sordes died out right at the end of the
Jurassic! What a paper this is going to be!" she'd laughed, eyes shining.
摘要：
展开>>
收起<<
CHAPTERONESkeeterJacksonwasascoundrel.Adyed-in-the-wool,thievingscoundrel.Heknewit,ofcourse;knewitaswellasanyoneelseinLa-LaLand(atleast,anyonewho'dbeenonShangri-LaStationlongerthanaweek).Notonlydidheknowit,hewasproudofit,thewayothermenwereproudoftheirbattingaverages,theircholesterolcounts,theirstock...
声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！
分类：外语学习
价格：5.9玖币
属性：201 页
大小：545.77KB
格式：PDF
时间：2024-12-03
作者详情
相关内容
-
行政事业单位内部控制报告-关于印发编外聘用人员管理制度和编外聘用人员年度考核制度
分类：办公文档
时间：2025-03-03
标签：无
格式：DOC
价格：5.9 玖币
-
行政事业单位内部控制报告-风险评估管理制度
分类：办公文档
时间：2025-03-03
标签：无
格式：DOCX
价格：5.9 玖币
-
行政事业单位内部控制报告-采购管理内部控制制度
分类：办公文档
时间：2025-03-03
标签：无
格式：DOCX
价格：5.9 玖币
-
行政事业单位内部控制报告-部署单位内部控制专题培训和风险评估工作会议纪要
分类：办公文档
时间：2025-03-03
标签：无
格式：DOC
价格：5.9 玖币
-
行政事业单位内部控制报告-关键岗位轮岗及专项审计制度
分类：办公文档
时间：2025-03-03
标签：关键
格式：DOCX
价格：5.9 玖币
渝公网安备50010702506394
